


Me, jealous?!

by Illidria



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: BROT3, Gen, LLF Comment Project, but in the realm of canon possibility, stupid fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 16:07:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12257688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illidria/pseuds/Illidria
Summary: Sometimes not being able to sleep, for whichever reason, leds to downtime. Competetive, stupid, downtime.





	Me, jealous?!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NorthernWall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernWall/gifts).



> My dear,
> 
> here it is, your wish-fic. Here are the prompts, for those that like to go searching:
> 
> BrOT3 Olivier/Miles/Buccaneer
> 
> “I hope I’m never stuck with you on a deserted island.”
> 
> “Quit beating me up!”
> 
> “Oh honey, I’d never be jealous of you.”
> 
> There’re some slight alterations to these sentences, just to have them flow better with the rest of the dialogue and have it fit the characters some more, but nothing serious, or tenor-changing.
> 
> I really hope you like it though and thank you so much for the prompts :D

Their nightly meetings in the Forts fitness room became something of a given.

Had started after the second nightly attack, none of them able to just go back to sleep easily. And fourteen nightly attacks by the Drachmans, over the course of two months, had this one chance meeting evolve into a routine. Somewhat fun, but soon beloved.

“Oh, she’s jumping already?”

Miles sat down next to Buccaneer, who’d made himself at home on a bench, having brought three beer bottles and just as much water.

Armstrong was on the padded mats, the ones where they usually sparred on. Sword in hand, hair braided, the usual gym-clothes substituted by a pair of shorts that suspiciously looked like those you got at the academy. The shirt she wore at least seven sizes too big, bunched at her hip with the help of a hair-band, both most likely lend from Buccaneer. Miles had the lingering suspicion that those on laundry-duty these days, couldn’t keep up with Armstrong’s demand.

“Already was when I came in.”

The big guy shrugged, eyes transfixed on their superior.

Solo-training with the sword was something vastly different to the usual sparring sessions. More meditative, displaying a level of skill she could probably only ever show in a battle with a foe on par with her abilities. Could probably slice one up in front of her, while kicking another in the face behind her. It was artistic, one of the few moments the confessed ballet-lessons as a child showed and was awe-inspiring enough to watch, even after the tenth time. Not even the huge shirt, “Bear Grills” written on it, with an image above the text of a bear indeed grilling, could take away from that.

Yet, jumping was only achieved after at least twenty minutes of warm up and with Buccaneer watching for what was probably a long time now, that meant that Armstrong was at it for about an hour now. At this rate she’d be too worn out to spar.

Before he could say something, she came to a halt after a last backflip, sword stretched out in front of her, breathing hard. Sabre slowly sinking, she flashed them a smile.

“Evening, Miles.”

It had become second nature to drop the honorifics at nightly outings, whether they be in the fitness-room, mess, or North Cities bars.

Buccaneer threw her a bottle of water, from which she greedily drank after sheathing her sword.

“Any news from the spies?”

After gulping down half the bottle, she shook her head at him.

“Nothing new. There’s still a lot of movement at their first outpost, but no sign of the influx of troops stopping.”

“So, they’ll attack again?”

Buccaneer pulled his tank over his head, stepping onto the vacated mat, waiting for Miles to get in position.

“Guess so, though my appeal to Central to permit a first strike is still discussed.”

Miles stretched some more, several bones in his back popping.

“Think they’ll grant it?”

She sat down, stealing his only just discarded jacket and pulling it on. Seemingly having listened when they’d told her she’d sooner or later get sick one day, sitting around in sweaty clothes.

Yet, not bothering to bring her own.

“Honestly? I highly doubt it. But it would help if we were at least allowed to mine the no man’s land.”

They got into position opposite of one another, Armstrong watching intently.

There was no cue, just Buccaneer stepping forward with a large step, hands grabbing his shoulders. He wound his left shoulder out of the grip, taking advantage of the lack of feeling in the automail-hand, avoiding the claws at the same time.

His right still stuck, he tried to move, wanting to bring his opponents arm in a position that made holding onto him too hard, too tiring. Managed just that by letting himself fall quickly, escaping through the man’s legs, locked in a wide stance.

Evading the metal hand once more, he landed a blow on the man’s abdomen. Nothing more than a hurting hand it got him and the renewed assurance, that this wouldn’t get him any further. Eluding the big man’s unexpectedly quick movements twice more, he finally managed to kick Buccaneers legs at the right spot, toppling him.

And not getting out from under the man’s bulk quick enough, who’d managed to turn and move during his fall.

Felt the dreaded metal-hand close around his right ankle, holding dangerously tight. Instead of a too likely and certainly expected kick, Miles threw himself upright, trying to strike a cluster of nerves with his fists, succeeding after many painful moments.

He was let go, scrambled to his feet, ankle pulsating with blood suddenly rushing back into it.

Their fight commenced for about fifteen minutes in this manner, no one gaining the upper hand, neither fighting at full strength, it being too dangerous. They were both well trained, had the stamina to endure such a bout and only after Armstrong told them to drink something, they broke it up.

When Miles held his hand out to her, right hand already in possession of his water bottle, Buccaneer seemingly just had to snicker.

A death glare had him shut up.

“You don’t own any civvies or what?”

Buccaneer asked with an edge of honesty to his voice, watching him sigh and shrugg at her lack of reaction.

“Maybe five pieces? None of which I can wear without people commenting on indecency for sure.”

She’d opened her bottle of beer sometime during their match apparently, taking a healthy swig from it, talking on quickly.

“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but most of the time I’m busy running this Fort.”

Miles laughed, not at the facts, but at the way she delivered them, leaving her puzzled. Before she could say anything though, Buccaneer butted in.

“Which is I why I hope I’m never stuck with you on a deserted island.”

He thought it to be a trick of light, but did she look a little bit hurt?

“Why not?!”

There was no way he could hold back now either, sitting himself down on the mat, grabbing his own beer.

“Yeah, why not? You do realise that there’s no one who could get you out of such a mess faster?”

Armstrong and he exchanged a bewildered gaze, when Buccaneer slapped his left hand to his forehead, laughing gruffly.

Their shared exclamation came at the same time, but unplanned.

“What?!”

After working through a solid five-minute fit, Armstrong lost her patience, hitting his upper arm with a tightly clenched fist repeatedly, talking calm sips of beer all the while.

“Quit, beating me up, geez!”

Rubbing his arm, he threw the blonde a sour gaze, looking for any bruises forming. Miles curiosity got the better of him.

“Speak up now, why not?”

Downing the last of the drink, grabbing his water bottle directly afterwards, you could see the humour dancing in the man’s eyes.

“Self-explanatory, isn’t it? You get stuck on a niece deserted island, sun’s up, tropical fruits everywhere and who stands behind you? Ordering you to build a raft?”

Armstrong was leaning back a bit, with a conspiratorial gaze aimed at him.

“Miles, remind me to leave him behind, should we ever end up in a situation like that.”

For some reason Buccaneer laughed again, though calmed quicker this time. Grinning at them.

“Oh, come on, you can’t tell me that you wouldn’t slack off for even a day or two?”

Miles shrugged, as did Armstrong, and now it was the big guys turn to put on a bewildered expression.

“No one watching, no one writing report cards, no one to order around? And you’d still not lay down in the sand and sunbath a bit?”

Their answers came in quick succession, a shade of nonchalance showing in them.

“I don’t tan a lot.”

“I burn too easily.”

Emptying his water bottle too, Buccaneer folded his arms in front of his wide chest.

“So, you’re just jealous that I’ll turn bronze.”

Which was immediately met with Armstrong wheezing out a choice sentence through a fit of laughter.

“Oh honey, I’d never be jealous of you.”

The big guy’s mouth stood open for a second.

“Don’t fool yourself, there’s so much to be jealous of!”

He instantly flexed his muscles, which nearly led to Miles beer leaving him through his nose. Which it did, as soon as he heard Armstrong’s counter.

“Well, I can talk to women!”

There was a blush creeping over the man’s cheeks, but he wasn’t one to be one-upped in a challenge without a fight, turning on Miles now, surely as a payment for his laughter.

“I can grow a moustache!”

Armstrong beat him to an answer.

“You wouldn’t know just what kind of talents are running in my family.”

Which led to all three of them laughing, though Miles could see Buccaneers eyes ghost over her upper lip, searching for any traces that backed this statement.

“Ladies dig the long hair!”

Miles answered now, thumb pointing at Armstrong.

“Yeah, they did!”

Buccaneer groaned, Armstrong blushed a little and when the shared laughter finally died down and a certain heaviness gripped all of them, it became clear that everybody would soon return to their respective quarters.

They all got up, knowing their banter to have been in good humour.

Armstrong undoubtedly winging Buccaneer at their next trip to the bar, looking uncomfortable whenever someone would hit on her, regardless of gender, yet harvesting names and numbers left and right. Buccaneer buying drinks for all of them, entertaining them with stories from his years of service, wherever served. And he’d make sure that those two did not get too competitive, would make sure to get them home in one piece.

And leaving the shower, throwing another dirty set of clothes in the locker-room-hamper, he made a mental note to plan a shopping trip for Armstrong.

His last clean pair of pants gone from where he’d put them on the bench.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. I invite you to leave:
> 
> _Short comments_   
>  _Long comments_   
>  _Questions_   
>  _Constructive criticism_   
>  _Reader-reader interaction_
> 
> I reply to every comment, though it sometimes takes me a day, or two.
> 
> I thank you for reading this fic of mine through to the end. I appreciate all comments and kudos and should you want to get into direct contact with me [this is my tumblr](http://illidria.tumblr.com/)


End file.
